


The Bleachers

by Jasper Kirby (blakesaregrates)



Series: Sprace High School AU [2]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Also smoking because Race is a bad boy, High School AU, I'm so sorry, M/M, Modern AU, Rated mature for swearing and making out (and the effects that making out has on teenage boys), Sports, Swearing, Teen AU, italian swearing, sprace, teenage relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakesaregrates/pseuds/Jasper%20Kirby
Summary: It's Saturday, and Tony is going to watch the football game. A certain somebody finds him after the game and they get...busy under the bleachers.(A sequel to my previous fic, 'The Locker Room'. The rating is for gay newsboys absolutely being gay newsboys, and also swearing.)





	The Bleachers

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all wanted more, so here is a follow up to 'The Locker Room' but really, you can read this as a stand-alone thing. Let me know if you enjoy it and anything else you would like me to write.

There were many things that Antonio Higgins loved. His friends, for example, and running. Cigarettes was a recent addition to the list. But never, ever, ever had waking up early on a weekend been on that list.

So for Tony to set his alarm for 9am (and actually wake up to it) on a Saturday morning, Jack Kelly concluded he must be dreaming.

“What the hell are you doin’?” he grumbled from underneath his blanket, glaring at his kinda-sorta-brother. 

Tony, who had his back to him, was grabbing a towel. “Goin’ for a shower before the other boys wake up and steal all the hot water,” he replied as if it were a regular thing.

Jack stared blankly, before stubbornly pushing himself out of his bed to force Tony back onto his bed and press a hand against the kid’s forehead. No, not warm.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Tony asked in confusion, echoing the older boy’s words from before. 

Jack shrugs, dropping back down dramatically on his bed. “Just checking you weren’t sick.”

Sighing, Tony gets back up and snatches his towel back up. “No, of course I ain’t sick. I just gotta take a shower,” he states pointedly. He heads for the door. “I’m goin’ to the football game,” he adds, quietly.

“What?!” he hears Jack’s affronted shout as he shuts the door behind him.

-

Once washed, dried and dressed in the cleanest clothes he could find, Tony made sure he had everything he needed before heading for the door. 

“Hey Racetrack, goin’ to the football game?” comes the teasing voice of his best friend, Albert, coupled with his trademark shit-eating grin. Said boy was currently lounging over the back of the couch in a way that was definitely not the correct way to sit on it, watching his friend clock out to show he was leaving the foster home.

Tony felt himself blushing but glared through it anyway. “As a matter of fact, I am. I’ll see you later, douche.” And before Albert could even react, Tony was gone.

He was at the bus stop for 10 minutes, and on the actual bus for 15, but he made it to the school 20 minutes before the game, just as he planned. He quickly bought himself a soda and settled into an end seat about 4 rows back: he wanted a good view, but didn’t want to be spotted - no pun intended.

As the clock hits 11am, a whistle is blown and the cheerleaders start to perform their routine. He watches patiently, silently admiring one or two of them for their killer figures, but he isn't interested. He endures the whole set and the cheers and hollers of his classmates around him, before clapping politely as they finish. 

He isn’t here for the cheerleaders. Hell, he isn’t even here to watch the game. The reason he’s here is currently jogging onto the pitch along with his ten teammates. 

-

Tony endures a whole hour of the game, his blue eyes solely focused on Conlon. He’s short but he’s built, and it’s no surprise that his side won (as far as Tony could tell, he lost track of what was actually happening after about 10 minutes).

As far as he’s aware, Spot didn’t see him. Yet as everyone cheers for both teams, Conlon’s eyes meet his and a chill runs down Tony’s spine. 

He doesn’t know why he stays, he really doesn’t. But he finds himself stood behind the empty bleachers, smoking his way through three cigarettes. Perhaps that’s his excuse - he can’t smoke at the home, and by the time he’s made it back, the smell will have gone enough to get to his room before any adults notice.

Except, Tony knows that isn’t the reason. The real reason rounds the corner after 20 minutes, dressed in casual jeans and an obnoxiously tight t-shirt, smirking with mischief in his eyes.

“Higgins.”

“Conlon.”

“Nice to see you made it. Didn’t think football was your game.”

“It isn’t,” Tony snaps back, before realising the implications.

“Oh?” Spot’s smirk widens tenfold. “What brings you here then?”

Tony sighs, going for his pack of Coronas. “Albert wanted to come,” he lies easily. “I was meant to meet him here and he bailed, leaving me to be bored for an hour.”

Spot just shakes his head. “Cut the crap, Higgins. DaSilva hates football just as much as you do.” Spot takes a step closer, taking the cigarette from Tony’s hand and shoving it into the boy’s jacket pocket. “Admit it: you came to see me.” He’s now backed Tony up against a post, not at all phased by the fact the boy was taller than him.

“Now why would I do that?” Tony says slowly, testing the waters.

“You tell me,” Spot growls, before pulling Tony down by his jacket and crashing their mouths together.

It isn’t like Jack described his many first kisses with various people: no sparks, no fireworks, no explosion of love in his chest. Just a jolt of something straight down to his dick.

Spot is the opposite of everything Jack described: he’s rough, demanding, and so fucking controlling. He has Tony stooping down to reach his level, one hand still fisted in the lapel of his jacket, the other grabbing a handful of his curls tightly. His lips are fierce (much like his personality) and his tongue fights for dominance over Tony’s as he kisses with fire and energy, more than the taller boy could ever muster - especially considering the shock he’s in as he kisses back with equal fervour. Occasionally their teeth clash, catching each other’s lips once or twice in sharp nips, greatly outweighed when Spot bites down on Tony’s bottom lip. 

Tony groans and Spot rolls his hips in response, his very obvious hard-on grinding against Tony’s thigh and driving him mad. The shorter boy starts to move his mouth down Tony’s neck and said boy lets his head fall back against the post, his knees slightly bent to give Spot more access. 

“Figlio di puttana,” he moans out, and Spot roughly pulls the neck of his t-shirt away to press a hot kiss to Tony’s collarbone, biting and suckling enough to nearly draw blood. Great, a fucking hickey. No low cut shirts for a while.

“Do that again,” Spot growls, looking up into lust-blown eyes. 

Tony frowns, now panting and grinding back against Spot. “Huh?” he manages to get out in his hazy state.

“Speak again, in that...whatever language it is,” Spot commands, his hold moving to Tony’s bony hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises of his fingertips. 

“I-Italian? Um…” Tony has to blink and clear his mind for a second, his native tongue taking over. “Zitto e baciami, stronzo.”

Spot growls, low in his throat, and surprisingly follows the foreign command, probably just out of instinct, catching Tony’s lips in a fiery kiss once more. 

However, they’re interrupted by Spot’s phone pinging from his jeans. The boy retrieves his phone, then smirks up at the curly-haired boy. “Sorry Racetrack, I gotta go; my ride’s here. But believe me, this isn’t done.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving Race high and not-so-dry, out of breath and rock hard under the bleachers like some chick in a stupid movie.

What a fucking asshole.

-

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Got sidetracked. I’m allowed to wander, ain’t I?”

“Why do you smell like aftershave?”

“Just shut up, Albert.”

**Author's Note:**

> Italian translations!
> 
> "Figlio di puttana" - "Son of a bitch"  
> "Zitto e baciami, stronzo" - "Shut up and kiss me, asshole"
> 
> Also if you have any suggestions/requests, please just ask me!


End file.
